They walk among us. Amos couldn’t hold his liquor and spilled the beans. I didn’t believe him until he levitated the bottle of hot sauce on our barroom table.
Here to invade, these aliens? Nope. Earth is a galactic Tijuana. Alcohol. Drugs. Violence. Littering.
It’s boring out there, in civilization.
Joe Malone is fluent in the South Sudanese languages of Nuer and Zande.
Amanda woke to crinkling paper.
She squinted at her husband as he flipped through a magazine at 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday. “Do you have to make so much noise this early in the morning?”
Jerry lowered his reading glasses.
“It depends, really… Do you have to snore when you sleep?”
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Yellow Mama, and other magazines. For more on her writing, visit kristinaengland.blogspot.com.
Leroy, the toughest guy in Chunktown, stole a gun and robbed the Central Bank.
“Gimme the money, punk,” he said like on TV.
Leroy fled with the loot up the middle of Main and collided with a bus.
The city paid for the funeral. Leroy ain’t so tough no more.
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over sixty short pieces published or pending with various venues. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.
Never one to live within the boundaries of convention, Silas stood in the center of his attic.
As a bulb swayed from the cyclone’s winds, his shadow mimicked each whip crack.
Rearing back, Silas bellowed, “Down, Samson, down.”
The inflatable lion complied with a short bark and a prolonged hiss.
Craig Holzschuh is unpublished, unemployed, and unavailable for weddings or Bar Mitzvahs. He is currently contemplating a run for political office or just a trip to the fridge.
“Did you hear me? I’m leaving you.”
“Yes, dear. Can you make me something to eat before you go?”
“Are you dense? I said I’m leaving you!”
“Mmhmm. Will you be gone long this time?”
She dropped her suitcase and leaned against the open door. “Is a tuna sandwich okay?”
Margaret Glover is an RN and writer of short stories, drabbles and poetry. She has had work published in Familius, 101Fiction, The Were-Traveler and Writers Haven. Her passions are reading, writing and traveling the country.
At age 5, Brody required less of my doting. Horsing around on the monkey bars, he slipped. His embarrassment outweighed his pain.
Bath time, I asked if I could take a look. Reluctantly, he agreed. As I kneeled in for examination, he turned his head, rolled his eyes and said, “Awkward.”
Shelly Eady is an emerging writer with an abundance of faith and a heart’s desire to enrich, inspire, and encourage others to dream through the art of creativity.
Our house made scary sounds in the storm. Ma said don’t worry; the house is complaining about the rain.
Our house made scary noises at night. Ma said it was settling down to sleep.
Aunt and uncle came to visit. The house made scary sounds. Ma said it was eating.
Joe Malone is living alone in Africa in a mud house. His blog is here: http://joem18b.wordpress.com/.
It would eventually come up after a few dates, the women wanting to know family details.
“You poor thing, so sad your mother died during childbirth.”
“Yes, sad,” I’d reply, and save the sadder story that my father is in jail for blowing her head off in the delivery room.
Jerri Clayton is a freelance writer/editor and also works full time at Southern New Hampshire University as a copywriter and editor of fundraising communications. Jerri received her MFA in nonfiction from Southern New Hampshire University. She is concurrently dabbling in fiction, working on a series of essays about runners, and continues revising her memoir, In the Long Run. Visit her website: JerriClayton.com.
Our love story was awkward.
We were a nerd’s fantasy or a geek’s real-life-RPG.
But the way our fingers brushed on the calculator had more electricity than Bella and her vampire boy, and the tears we cried when Dumbledore died were saltier than Romeo’s.
We weren’t fiction. We were real.
Emily Ramser grew up in the Sacramento’s gay district, or at least experienced puberty there, but later moved to the southern Bible belt to finish out high school. Rather than average society, she prefers to surround herself with furries, Baptist students and high school dropouts. Tweet her @ChickadeePoems.
Who are they to call me wicked?
I may look different; my green skin may startle some. But what is the difference?
I have chosen my side, and it is with the talking animals of Oz.
People will fear me.
Not Elphaba Thropp.
But the Wicked Witch of the West.
Cali Chambers is a high school student who is currently attending her last year. She usually writes amusing little stories for her younger family members and has not done any successful creative writing for over the last four years (due to the increasing demands from her teachers.)